


Familiar

by AlyssaKendall



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, French Toast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssaKendall/pseuds/AlyssaKendall
Summary: If there is one thing Bucky Barnes is good at doing, it's making making French toast. Or, "Bucky Barnes is a French toast expert." Domestic fluff. Hints of Bucky adjusting to civilian life. (Bucky/Steve/Sam is my new favorite OT3.)





	Familiar

It was one of the few things that came to him naturally, after he had left DC. 

Eggs in the bowl, add the milk, a splash of vanilla, a pinch of cinnamon, and even a little brown sugar or almond extract when he was able to afford it -- which was almost never -- to give it a little extra flavor. Beat with a fork, _not_ a whisk, to really break up the egg whites, and then finally dip in the bread. Fry it in a pan coated lightly with oil or butter. Of course, Bucky preferred the butter flavor, but just like in the 30’s and 40’s, he had to ration the little he did have in order to make it last longer than a week or two. If there was one thing Bucky could do, it was live on meager amounts of anything and everything.

He probably made French toast three or four times a week in Bucharest. Maybe more, when there were days that all he could scavenge were a few eggs and a few pieces of bread. He’d had it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on occasion. Adding only the slightest drizzle of syrup to give it that little bit of extra sweetness. He was an Irish boy out of Brooklyn born in 1917. He wasn’t exactly used to cooking that included more than a pinch of salt and pepper or a lot of boiling. But French toast? He could easily manage that. 

Naturally, years later and now that he was back in DC in significantly more substantial living conditions and not to mention better food and meal choices with Steve and Sam, it was of course still something that managed to find its way into their regular diets. At least once a week, Bucky would find himself drawn to the kitchen, mixing again -- this time in a large pyrex bowl -- his eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and almond extract, then dipping and frying the bread in an always-butter-coated pan. Sam reminding him that they didn’t have to ration now, and that Bucky was free to use whatever ingredients he wanted. And within reason, they could always get more at the store. Sam and Steve had plenty of income to afford a few sticks of butter each month. 

And so here he stood, hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, sprinkling some more of the brown sugar into the egg batter before beating it again with a fork. In a way, it was therapeutic. Familiar and easy, a routine ritual he could perform as long as he had the right ingredients. And in a way, it always tasted of home. As long as he was able to cook and make French toast, he was in control, he was safe. 

The coffee maker sputtered as he put the last piece of bread into the pan, plating the pieces that were already done. He tossed a handful of mixed berries from a larger bowl onto each plate, and then double checked a medium-sized pan of breakfast sausage links. Everything was coming along perfectly, and Bucky was able to smile, relax. The only thing left to do was pour the juice into their glasses after flipping the last three pieces of French toast in the pan. 

He was about to turn to the refrigerator, hand on the handle to open the door, when another hand quickly beat him to it. “I got this, Buck. You just go ahead and finish the plates.” Steve grinned as Bucky let out a small sigh, nodding. He hadn’t realized that either of them were already up and ready.  


“You got the syrup?” Sam asked, directing his question to Steve as he also came into the kitchen.

“Which one?” Bucky asked before Steve could respond, with a smirk. There was a time when Sam completely blew his mind by explaining that there was, in fact, more than just maple syrup available in the market now. The idea of being able to get raspberry, blueberry, or even elderberry, apple, or butter pecan flavored syrups absolutely sent his mind in a momentary spiral. Naturally, they have since tried each one. 

Sam simply smiled back. “You know which one,” He mocked suggestively as Bucky quickly jogged to grab both the maple and raspberry out of the pantry. 

The French toast in the pan was ready, and the whole house smelled like something of a small diner. Bucky finished the plates with the final slices as Steve poured their juice and Sam poured their coffee. He pulled the pan of sausages from the stovetop and carefully set them on a hotplate on the table with a pair of tongs. “Dig in?” 

French toast was staple in their home. Something quick, affordable, and familiar for three war veterans under one roof. Yet for Bucky it was something more, something that he could make to remind himself that he was part of this family, and part of something that made him relax and enjoy living.


End file.
